


The Crack in His Chest

by Iced_Coffee_Please



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Death, Depression, Foreshadowing, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Dean Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Pre-Castiel, Priest Jimmy Novak, Protective Dean Winchester, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Season 2, Stream of Consciousness, church
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22774327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iced_Coffee_Please/pseuds/Iced_Coffee_Please
Summary: Dean stops eating the night Sam dies, the fried chicken cold and lifeless and only reminding him of the corpse sleeping in the guest room. Bobby doesn’t notice, can’t notice after Dean kicks him out, all anger and fire andGET OUTandDON’T COME BACK.Or,The one where Dean hasn't sold his soul yet.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	The Crack in His Chest

Dean stops eating the night Sam dies, the fried chicken cold and lifeless and only reminding him of the corpse sleeping in the guest room. Bobby doesn’t notice, can’t notice after Dean kicks him out, all anger and fire and **GET OUT** and **DON’T COME BACK**.

Dean hardly moves for those first two days, alternating between sitting in front of the guest bed, his eyes never leaving his baby brother’s face, and throwing up bile in the bathroom. He finds a bottle of booze stashed away in a cupboard that night, drinks until he can’t feel anything; until he can hear his little brother’s voice in his head and not feel like dying. Sammy laughs at him inside his mind, says something about Dean and his inability _not_ to drink, says something about how _a bottle of water wouldn’t kill you, Dean,_ and Dean cries until he can’t breathe because who says he can be whole when his baby brother is rotting?

Dean doesn’t even notice the smell at first, attributes it to the fact that he hasn’t showered in days, hasn’t brushed his teeth either, and he winces after feeling them with his tongue, the grime only reminding him of the fried chicken that’s slowly decomposing. And really, that’s it. He smells, and so does the chicken, that’s why the house smells like that, like something’s choking the air, because there’s no way his little brother smells like that.

He remembers learning in bio as a tired pre-teen, ( _Jesus, you really have been running on empty all your life, Dean,_ Sammy breathes out), that dead things start to smell after a couple of days, that their body becomes different, deformed. Mr. Simmons always preached that there are proper ways to dispose of the dead, respectful ways, even if he was only talking about bloated frogs, their stomachs filled with flies.

Somewhere in his mind, Dean can understand that. Most people bury the dead or cremate them soon after the death, pressing the pause button on the funeral date until their loved one’s body is preserved in chemicals for the casket. Most people don’t hole up in an abandoned cabin that they had found a couple of days ago, because Dean **can’t just leave him, Bobby, can’t just what? Drive him somewhere? Don’t be stupid.** Most people don’t just let their baby brother’s body waste away with the fried chicken stinking up the air, don’t just try to drink themselves to death because hey, maybe they could join their brother soon.

The third night there, Dean ends up gorging himself on the water that flows from the bathroom sink, if only to get Sammy’s voice to leave him alone. In the morning he throws it all up again, his grief taking over his senses. And really, what’s an empty stomach compared to an empty space in his life he’ll never get back?

The fourth day, Dean can’t even muster up enough energy to cry, and it takes him longer than it should to find his phone, his fingers shaking when he scrolls through his contact list, heart tightening in his chest when it ends up that the only alive contacts in his phone are the father-figure he kicked out days ago, and some fancy pizza place two states over that Sammy had liked, _they make the dough from scratch, Dean!_. He ends up calling neither and spends two hours trying to convince himself to get up from the floor and find a shovel. There ends up being nothing when he checks, the moon glaring at him from the sky, the shed outside devoid of everything but a nearly empty can of gasoline and a lawnmower that’s more scrap metal than anything else.

He pries off a flat piece of the lawnmower, uses one of the sharp ends to scrape at the earth, the size of it too big to rest comfortably in his hand. When the other end pierces his palm, blood a small, steady stream that drips on the dirt, he laughs. By dawn, he has torn, bloody fingernails, a busted hand, and a grave barely big enough for his brother. When Dean lays in it to test out the depth, it takes everything he has not to stay there forever.

* * *

Really, the one thing that Dean will remember until the day he dies, and Jesus that can’t happen soon enough, is the feeling of carrying his baby brother in his arms for the last time. He manages a choking laugh when he picks Sammy up, for as much salad and gluten-free crap his brother ate, it doesn’t really change the fact that he’s more muscle than anything else. 

Was. 

Was more muscle than anything else.

And then Dean finds himself nearly collapsing in on himself as he passes through the front door.

How can he do this?

How can he possibly bury his baby brother?

 _The same way we buried Dad, Dean,_ Sammy whispers in his head, his voice so sorrowful and full of pity it hurts.

 **But I didn’t raise Dad,** Dean thinks to himself, breath catching in his throat when he reaches the hole in the dirt that he carved for his brother, his arms shaking and straining.

By some miracle, (though Dean will never bring himself to call it that, the word tasting like fire in his mouth), Sam fits in the makeshift grave, the top of his shoe level with the ground, and Dean belatedly realizes that there’s gum on the toe of his brother’s right boot, scrapes it off with a pocket knife.

And then it’s a parody of how it was before in the cabin, Dean doing nothing else but sitting in front of his brother, Sammy’s face on display for the entire sky to see.

Even the clouds weep upon seeing Sam Winchester uncovered in the dirt, the rain turning from a soft drizzle to pounding rain, the wind shaking the earth, and all Dean can seem to do is shuck off his jacket to protect his baby brother’s face. When the rain doesn’t let up after what must be an hour, Dean’s body shivering so much he can barely focus, he pushes some mud- just the littlest bit, surely Sammy wouldn’t mind- on his brother’s shoe, the same one that used to have gum on it before, just to see if it’ll stay. 

The mud doesn’t wash away, and Dean can’t tell if the hole in his chest is aching out of relief or disappointment. The other shoe gets covered after, and then Dean is crawling a few feet away, leather jacket scraping against the earth with him as he hurls, bile falling out of his mouth, not that much comes out.

Once Dean gets the strength to crawl back, jacket resting next to him like an old friend, arms aching, Sammy’s face is covered in water droplets, his hair sticking to his face. Dean takes a deep breath, his lungs filling with the sky, before pushing more dirt and mud and some stray leaves over his brother’s corpse, his ankles and calves and knees now covered completely. 

The rain starts to slow down, the wind becoming less of a howl and more of a wail, and by the time Sam’s entire legs are covered, Dean’s shaking fingers have turned into a steady hum.

 _Come on man,_ Sam sighs, his hair dripping wet, _it’s cold out here, hurry up._

 **I know,** Dean mumbles, voice hardly a whisper, **I know. Too bad you didn’t have the sense to die in Florida, bitch.**

And then Sammy doesn’t say _jerk_ back, and Dean can feel his heart crack right down the middle in his chest. His face contorts in tearless grief, and his hands grip onto his brother’s ugly-ass flannel long after his fingers hurt. 

The rain stops when Sam’s head is the only part of him left to be covered up. 

Dean spends too much time brushing his brother’s freakishly long hair out of his eyes, idly thinks to himself that **it would be so much easier if he had just gotten a damn haircut before-**

By the time Dean realizes he’s walking away from the grave, leather jacket creased in his hand, the body of Sam Winchester can no longer be seen by the sky or the wind or any mere mortal, and a wooden cross sticks out of the ground right behind where his head lays, hair neatly brushed out of his closed eyes.

The kitchen stinks when Dean steps back inside, the putrid air choking what little sky still remains in his lungs, and he takes the decaying bucket of chicken outside, lays it to rest near a tree truck, wonders if it’ll rot at the same speed as his Sammy, and then suddenly the only thing that fills the woods is the sound of his screaming.

* * *

Dean Winchester ends up leaving the cabin in the same way he arrived, dad’s leather jacket resting on his shoulders, his little brother’s gift in the shape of an amulet laying against the crack in his chest, the gaping hole that will never be filled.

There’s a half bottle of whiskey still sloshing around in the glove compartment, and it takes Dean longer than it should to remember that it’s there.

His pocket knife is a steady presence next to his hip, and he can’t help but think that maybe it would feel even better in the chasm in his heart.

 _Don’t be an idiot,_ Dean, Sammy reprimands. _It wouldn’t do you any good._

And, like always, Dean can never say no to his brother. He tucks the idea in the back of his mind, pretends like he doesn’t feel it’s steady lull against his skull.

* * *

He ends up in a church later that day, an honest to god church, and somehow the priest there and the patrons don’t turn him away, even when he knows he smells like dirt and rot and death. They must sense that his world has ended when he stumbles in, half-drunk, his eyes filled with tears seconds away from streaming down his face.

Of course, though, Dean really ~~can’t do anything right, can you boy?~~ His dad thunders, as when he enters the lord’s house, or, at least, the lord’s house in this small town, the priest is midway through a homily, or what Dean can only assume is the homily, arms spread open as though everyone is welcome.

Dean sits himself down in the farthest possible pew from the others, his brother’s flannel that he found in the backseat of his car clenched in between his shaking hands folded in a laughable attempt at a prayer; a parody of the way he was taught to pray when he learned how to from Pastor Jim.

The priest seems to finish the service faster than he should if the looks of the other’s are anything to go by, a grandma’s face wilted in a bitter mix of sorrow and pity at Dean’s direction, not that he notices, his body hunched over, his eyes slammed shut, his face laying against his folded hands, his nose resting against his brother’s shirt because if he breathes hard enough it still smells like him.

Once the rest of the patrons have been more or less ushered or filtered out, the priest walks up to Dean, his footsteps hardly making a sound, and he stands next to the pew Dean is huddled against. It’s only then that the brotherless brother looks up, meets someone’s eyes in a gaze that isn’t one-sided, with only one really capable of seeing. 

The priest looks familiar in a way Dean can’t describe, his dark hair and five-o-clock shadow striking something in him, and somehow Dean knows that this isn’t the last time he’ll be in this man’s company. The priest smells like candle smoke and lightning, and the broken mess of a man can’t help but trust him.

“Is it alright if I sit next to you?”

Dean nods, scooches over on the bench until the man has enough room to sit, their knees close to touching. It’s the closest Dean’s gotten to body heat in days. 

“Would you like to talk about it?”

A minute shake of his head.

“That’s fine.”

Silence.

“The patrons here call me Father Novak, but you can call me Jimmy if you would like.”

Dean doesn’t offer his name and pretends he doesn’t hear his brother sigh in disappointment. 

“Would you mind if I prayed with you?”

Another shake of the head.

“Alright. Would you like me to pray out loud?”

Dean pauses, nods before he realizes he’s doing it, _you might as well at least hear what he has to say, Dean. He seems nice._

How can he say no to Sammy, now?

“Dear God, we are gathered here today to ask for your mercy. You are a compassionate God, and we are begging for your help with the sorrow that has fallen into your home this afternoon. Please grant us peace and calm, and that your love may shine down on us. Please help the man next to me with his troubles, and give him the serenity that he seeks. Please let him know that he is loved. Please let him know that he deserves to be saved. Amen.”

And then someone is rubbing Dean’s back, soothes him with words that float around him, 'It’s alright', and 'You’re going to be okay', coloring the air. His shoulders are shaking in response to his noiseless sobs, the tears he had been fighting off earlier streaking down his face. He’s wrapped in a one-arm hug from the priest, the warmth of human touch burning through his clothes. Sammy’s flannel lays in his lap, safe from the tears, and Dean wipes away his eyes with his free hand, his mother’s ring cold against his skin.

 **“I’m sorry.”** Dean chokes out, and he’s not sure who exactly he’s apologizing to. **“I’m so sorry.”**

“It’s alright, child.” The priest says, all the while running a hand up and down Dean’s back, and he can’t remember the last time anyone comforted him like this. Maybe his mom. Maybe never.

“I have to start another service soon, though. You may stay here if you would like.” He hesitates before adding, “Do you have anywhere to go?”

**“No.”**

The priest hums. “Would you like to stay here for the next service before we find somewhere for you to stay?”

He nods.

“I must get ready now, my child, but I will only be gone for a moment. Is it alright if I leave you now for a minute?”

Another nod, and when the priest slowly gets up, Sammy’s flannel takes its place back in Dean’s hands. He leans back against the bench, face pointed up towards the ceiling, and if he squints, he thinks he can see the beginning of the sun’s rays coming back from between the clouds.

 _I never thought I’d see you get along with a man of the cloth,_ Sam jokes, the bastard, _You used to say you’d rather burn than step inside a church._

Dean shrugs. What else can he do?

**“Guess I’m trying to make you proud of me, little brother.”**

_I’ve always been proud of you, Dean. Nothing can ever change that, jerk._

**“Bitch.”**

And then, for the first time in weeks, the hint of a smile flickers on the remaining Winchester’s face.

The doors of the Lord’s home open once more, patrons trickling in, bringing the sun and the sky with them, the glass stained windows painting the empty spaces. Dean’s lungs fill with sunlight, and a droplet of peace enters his chest.

For years after, Dean swears that at that moment, he could feel Sam’s arm around his shoulders, could smell lightning and aftershave and peace from the priest, could hear his mother’s laugh and see his father’s smile.

The sky surrounds him, and the air tastes like hope.

Dean takes a deep breath, and when he exhales, he can feel the weight on his chest lessen a fraction.

Maybe he will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! Thank you so much for reading my work!! I hope that you enjoyed it, and have a beautiful day 💙
> 
> If you have any questions, comments, concerns, or any other thought, feel free to share in the comments down below, as they are much appreciated!!
> 
> Thanks again!!


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